


Signs and Whispers (that you want to do butt stuff)

by LittleMousling



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Buying lube on Amazon, Established Relationship, M/M, Not Talking About It, butt stuff, chatfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 15:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11210922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Just leaving out lube and flowers and maybe a bottle of wine is a pretty great way to express "let's try butt stuff" non-verbally.





	Signs and Whispers (that you want to do butt stuff)

**Author's Note:**

> Please god y'all, do not link this on twitter or tumblr in a way that might pop up in someone's search column or Google Alert about themselves. I beg you. Do not make me cry.
> 
> This is chatfic, so not what you'd call brilliantly plotted or anything, but hey: Jon, Tommy, butt stuff. What's not to like? (Lovett: "SO MUCH. SO MUCH NOT TO LIKE. HOW VERY DARE YOU.")

Just leaving out lube and flowers and maybe a bottle of wine is a pretty great way to express "let's try butt stuff" non-verbally.

Tommy gets in from grabbing dinner or whatever and Jon has carefully made sure it's all visible and that he is in another room entirely, slightly pretending he's not the one who left it all there.

(Tommy is not fooled.) (Lovett might accidentally leave lube around Tommy's house—he certainly did when they lived together—but not with flowers or wine.)

Tommy is ... into it. Definitely into it. Except he doesn't quite know how to ask "which way were you thinking?" so he just pours them each a big glass of wine, pockets the lube, and joins Jon in the living room.

They drink in silence for a minute, thighs touching, Tommy's arm up around Jon's shoulders.

"Uh, I put the food in the fridge," Tommy says. "Unless you want to eat first?" He's pretty sure that's a clear enough suggestion that they could go fuck immediately.

"No, no, after's good." Jon clears his throat. "So, uh. Did you grab the, uh—"

"Yeah."

"Because I bought more. Uh, a bunch, actually. There was like a bulk sale? On Amazon. So there's a bunch under the sink upstairs. Just ... in case we don't hate it. If we do we can give it to Lovett, I guess."

Tommy does not expect to hate it. "Right."

"Right," Jon echoes. They're not moving. Tommy wants to move, but doesn't, and then Jon just tips back his glass in one long swallow, puts it on the table, and gets up.

"This feels weird," Tommy says, because, well.

"Do you not want to—"

"No, no, I want to." Tommy still has no idea exactly what's on the table. Or the mattress, as the case may be. He doesn't think he cares, though. "I did some research."

"Of course you did," Jon says, grinning down at him, and in that moment it's easy again. Tommy sets his own glass down and stands up right into Jon's personal space, pulling him in close, nuzzling—there's no manlier word for it—into Jon's cheek. "You smell nice," Jon murmurs.

Tommy feels loose and easy because of Jon, much more than from the wine. He smiles, even though Jon can't see it. "I used your soap this morning, so. That's pretty narcissistic, Favreau."

"Did you now," Jon says. "I used yours, uh. Twenty minutes ago."

That ... might answer Tommy's question.

"Let's go try some stuff," Jon says, and kisses Tommy's temple before he steps away. "Yeah? Lovett's in New York, so we're safe from interruptions, and, um, we've got the—you know."

Tommy pats his pocket. He does, in fact, know.

They've got nudity down to a science, these days; Jon's splayed across the bed by the time Tommy's gotten his socks off, and he admires the picture for a long moment. He likes that Jon lets him look. Jon knows he's worth looking at. He sends Tommy truly filthy photos sometimes—photos Tommy treasures and is deeply terrified will be hacked someday—and when they have to travel separately, he seems to love the Skype sex in part because he gets to show off.

Today, though, Tommy can touch, and that's much more his own style.

He put the lube on the nightstand before stripping out of his pants, and he snags it as he climbs onto the bed, between Jon's wide-spread thighs.

"You have to tell me if anything's ... not good," he says. "Very important, according to the internet. Also according to me, actually. No, like, biting the pillow and thinking of England."

Jon laughs. "It's a deal."

Tommy nudges one of Jon's legs up, runs his hand down the back of Jon's thigh to where he always gets sensitive and ticklish near the crease of his ass. "Mm," Jon says. "That's nice."

It's ... different, doing this. Usually when Tommy fondles Jon, they're pressed together, kissing or necking, jointly groping each other. Tommy doesn't usually get to just focus on Jon quite like this, unless Jon's dick is in his mouth, which is frankly not at all the same.

"Right," Tommy says, mostly to himself, and pops the top of the lube bottle. It doesn't squeeze very well, but he manages to smear enough across his fingertips that he feels okay about this stage of the process. Jon's staring at him, not his fingers but his face, and Tommy swallows, looks away and down at his ... target area.

He really should have done something before. Lovett is always, always going on about "a little bit of fingering is what makes a good blowjob great," and he and Jon have generally pretended not to hear him (for many reasons, frankly—that's often a good policy with Lovett's sex stories—but especially because they Don't Do That).

If they _had_ Done That, Tommy would be used to this by now. His heart wouldn't be racing or his cock this hard just from stroking one fingertip across Jon's hole. Jon wouldn't be breathing so heavily, the sound of it filling the silence in the room.

"You can—I've—um, you can do more, I've like played around a bit by myself," Jon says, and Tommy has to shut his eyes and think about that for one long, glorious moment. Their next Skype date is going to be fucking incredible, Tommy decides.

He takes the instruction, pushes his forefinger in. It's easy, slick and smooth, all the way in, and god, that's what Jon feels like _inside_. He's got his finger inside of Jon. He's going to fuck Jon. "Oh," Tommy says. He can't say anything more than that. Hopefully Jon gets it.

(Jon gets it.)

Jon comes up onto his elbows and reels Tommy in to kiss him. The position is awkward—Tommy's barely balancing—but it's perfect, just what Tommy needed to calm him down a little. Kissing Jon makes his heart race, but in a way he's used to.

Jon's hand slides down around Tommy's wrist, pulls and pushes it until Tommy's finger-fucking him, just a little, both of them gasping into each other's mouths at the way it feels. "More, fuck," Jon groans, and Tommy pulls back to squeeze more of the lube out—better safe than sorry, the internet had said—and push his middle finger in, too. It doesn't want to go, exactly, but Jon's hand is still on his, and Jon pushes more than Tommy would have, until it just pops inside. From there it's easy, the whole length of his two fingers, and now Jon's squirming under him, rocking against his hand.

"God, that's—Tommy." Jon's hand drops away, falling to the bed and gripping the comforter tight. "Tommy, Tommy."

Tommy is entirely certain that this, right here, is the greatest sexual experience of his life. It doesn't even involve his dick, but it's—everything. Jon falling apart under him, from just this, is devastating. He thinks he gets, entirely, what Lovett means about blowjobs; he doesn't think, as he'd always assumed before, that Lovett was describing receiving them.

"I want to—do you think?" Tommy asks. Sentences are beyond him.

"Yes, yes, fuck," Jon says. "I, uh—when I've been—I got a toy that's your size, so that—you know—"

Definitely, _definitely_ the greatest sexual experience of his life. "You keep secrets better than people think," he says, and Jon laughs, one quick burst of it that makes him tighten around Tommy's fingers.

Tommy grips the base of his cock and tries to breathe normally. It doesn't really work. He pulls on Jon's thigh again, tipping him over sideways, and ducks under his leg to slot up behind him. "Yeah?" he asks, pulling Jon in tight against his chest.

"Yeah," Jon says. "This is—yeah." Tommy rubs his nose against Jon's neck.

The first press into Jon is like nothing Tommy's ever experienced, and not really because of the physical sensation, but because it's—Jon. Jon's body, letting him inside. Jon trembling under the arm around his chest. Jon twisting his head back to try to kiss Tommy.

Tommy is not, not, not, going to be the guy who says "I love you," on first penetration, even though they've said it before. He isn't. He definitely— "Fuck, I love you," he says, and actually, he's fine with it. He's so fine with it. Everything in the world is fine right now.

"You too," Jon groans, and his hips push back against Tommy.

Tommy rocks against him, just a little, and feels himself sliding farther in. Every fraction of an inch feels like another new experience, like another little epiphany.

"God," Jon says. "Tommy, fucking hell."

"Good swearing or bad swearing," Tommy manages. It doesn't come out as a question, like he's too laser-focused on his cock to worry about grammatical intonation right now.

"Good swearing, good swearing." Jon curls an arm back to tug Tommy's face in tight against his neck, fingers in Tommy's hair. "Fuck."

"Yeah," Tommy agrees. He rocks his hips again and he's in, all the way. He'd read that this position was good for—slow, intimate, sensual, but he'd never imagined it could be like this, like they're welded together. The urge to thrust is there, but it's muted by the intensity of being pressed up against Jon, of being connected to him in this new way.

He pulls out, slow and steady, and pushes in the same way. Jon's hands tighten in his hair, and Jon's thigh moves, his hips changing position. "Trying to—" Jon says, but doesn't finish, and Tommy doesn't question it, just keeps slowly fucking him as Jon shifts around.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Jon whispers, and stops moving. "Just—there, yeah. Just like that. Fucking hell. Tommy, you gotta—more, I need it."

Tommy needs it, too. He tilts them forward so he can brace better, one knee planted, and starts giving it to Jon harder—still slow, but firmer now. He sets his teeth in Jon's shoulder, just to feel Jon's nails grip his scalp in return. "Yes," Jon says. "Yes, yes, Tommy."

Jon's hand drops away from his head, and Tommy cracks one eyelid long enough to see the blur of Jon's hand on his own cock, shadowed by the way they've shifted towards their bellies. "Yeah, Jon," he tells him. "Get yourself off for me, baby."

Jon gulps air in, shudders it out, and comes. Tommy doesn't see it, because the moment Jon's ass tightens down on him, the whole room goes blurry. Every sensation is indistinct, suddenly, except the one very, very vivid one. "Jesus!"

Jon's limp, chest heaving, and Tommy doesn't know the etiquette here, but he hopes Jon's still enjoying this because he really fucking is, and he's not got a minute left in him, he's sure. "So fucking hot, Jon," Tommy says, and he wants to say more, but there's just no brain left in him to find the words for any of it.

When he comes, it feels endless, his hips pressed as close to Jon's as he can get them, his sweat-drenched forehead against Jon's back. "Ah," he says, after, the only syllable he can access yet.

"Ah," Jon agrees. Jon's hips twitch forward, a little and then a lot, and Tommy's cock falls out of him. Tommy cuddles back in close immediately, hooks his chin over Jon's shoulder.

"Oh my god," he says. Jon nods, runs his hand along Tommy's thigh. "Oh my god, Jon."

"I know," Jon says. "We really should have done this earlier. Like, way earlier."

"So much earlier," Tommy agrees, fervently. "Oh my god."

"Lovett's going to be very smug."

Officially, they have a rule against talking about Lovett in bed. Unofficially, they've both given up on it.

"He doesn't need to know," Tommy says. Even as he says it, he knows it's ridiculous, but Jon just huffs a laugh and lets it go.

They lie there, breathing slowing down, sweat evaporating, for long, lovely moments. "Thanks for buying the stuff," Tommy says, after a while.

"Mm. You're welcome." Jon's voice is sleepy; Tommy doesn't blame him. Fuck dinner, they can have it for breakfast.

[and whatever then it ends, writing last lines is the worst thing and I refuse to do it for chatfic. they fall asleep, Lovett calls at 1AM and wakes them up and they have the food then, END OF SEX SCENE]


End file.
